The Fallen Idol
by ficticin
Summary: 167 days, that's how long it has been since Sherlock Holmes' death shook the world of one John H. Watson, and just when he starts setting into things, a surprise visitor from the Holmes family keeps him on his toes. Meanwhile, Sherlock has some issues of his own to resolve, and rooms with a pair of misfits to help him on his journey back to Baker Street. (Contains Johnlock)
1. A Knock at the Door (JW)

**This story is purely a work of fiction, and all rights to the characters belong to their respective creators and inspirations.**

**Story contains Original Characters not pertaining to Sherlock Holmes novella or lore _without_ romantic connection to any characters of canon origin, nor will they become explicitly involved in intimate relationships with anyone other than other OC's.**

**The story flips back between John and Sherlock's own separate perspectives, with perhaps one or two OC inserts merely to serve as plot devices to move the story along so it's entertaining for all of us, because Sherlock's a rather hard character to stay in the mind of for an extended period of time - so I hope you enjoy, and stick around to read the other bits as well!**

* * *

**Sherlock – The Fallen Idol**

**Part 1; A Knock at the Door (J.W.)**

"Sherlock? Sherlock, is that you?"

The name rattles in my ears. I haven't heard it spoken in months. Years. Decades, even. And yet even with its absence and sudden reappearance, silencing my breath and halting my thoughts, didn't have me questioning much more than the unfamiliar voice at my door.

"No...Sorry." I whisper back through the wood, my voice far weaker, quieter than it had been in past days. "He doesn't…live here anymore."

"What?" There's barely a moment of hesitation. "Don't be silly. Of course he does. I should know, shouldn't I?"

No, you shouldn't. I think.

"Well, it is my flat, and I think I'd know if He...were still living," I pause. "Here." I add, one broken breath later, my...his unexpected death still hanging in the forefront of my mind, plastered there, meeting my consciousness broken and battered each day since, regardless of how many times Lestrade checks in for advice.

The voice quiets, and is silent for several moments - I half think it gone, but then it rises.

"Do you mind if I come in?" It, not even yet deserving of a name, asks.

"What?" I jolt back sharply, glaring at the familiar wood of my door, past the familiar wood at my door, to the unfamiliar stranger I would much prefer to not be bothered by. "Yes, of course I mind!"

"Oh, good. I can have a bite to eat, then? I'm famished."

I see the door handle shift in place, and reach out in a panic to stop it, forcing my knee to its place, but two damn seconds and it's already too late. The door is open.

A young woman stares in at me, beaming, like she'd just fond someone's lost wallet filled with a bunch of cash. She's extremely young – probably sixteen or eighteen, I've never been good at telling the difference. She's tall, a bit scrawny - all leg and bone. Dark hair; a bit shaggy, but long. But it's her eyes. Her eyes stop me the most. An odd shade of green, like someone I once knew, something out of a dream, or a bloody memory in the rain, face against concrete.

"Which way's the kitchen?" She interrupts my thinking, stepping in before I can even form words with my mouth, before the invisible hand of a sharp, bitter agony I've been forcing myself not to feel around my throat loosens.

She drags a suitcase in behind her – pink, like a case He and I worked on once. She introduces herself, sharply, to the point, a name - a quick mix of letters, and I realize she won't be going anywhere soon…anywhere but upstairs, that is.

"You're American." I point out as she starts to stuff her face with my bread and my jam.

"Yes, well, no, not entirely. I've only been there for a few years. I liked the accent there - no one stared at you as much." She says, swallowing yet another bite of my food. "My uncle's sent me there a few years back, you see. I guess I was trouble for them."

"Your uncles?" I ask, trying to sound interested, just as he would try when I was talking. That is, when he would try, a rare enough occasion for the both of us.

"Yeah. Mycroft and Shirley. You know them." She replies. I stare, then blink.

Mycroft and Sherlock? Uncles?

"No." I say, a grin tugging at my lips, almost haughtily, but I hadn't heard a joke this rich since before...before it happened. I shake my head, still grinning, and giving her a firm look - if she thought she could just barge in here and fake a relation - a relation to him of all things, then she had another bloody thing coming to her. "No. Nope. I'm sorry but Sherlock doesn't have a niece." If I were rude, then at least I could sleep at night, when I could sleep at night, knowing I was right.

She sighs, nonchalant, then takes another bite, nearly returning the look I am sure I gave her first.

"Well it's not exactly something either of them would like mentioning, now, is it? Big scandal and all. Might put a dent in old Mycroft's political career – though dear Shirley did enough of that on his own the past year, don't you think?"

"Then you know that he's dead." I don't even ask, I simply state; an odd familiar tinge of pain ricocheting inside of me. A fracture, bruise retouched. A torment of words.

"Sherlock?" She asks, shrugging, like she doesn't even care. "It appears so, yes, but no."

"Pardon?" I almost laughed. Sherlock? Not dead? That's even more impossible than him having a niece of all things. I'd been there for Christ's sake, I saw it, all of it. I did as he said and this was my payment - what was next?

"Well he is Sherlock Holmes, isn't he?" She shrugged again, stuffing more toasted coated in delicious red preserves into her mouth. "And by the way, that cardigan is absolutely adorable on you. Did your boyfriend pick it out for you?" She asks.

"I - No. I mean, I'm not-"

"Sure you aren't." She snickers, winking in some suggestive way. I scowl, glaring, probably, but she doesn't notice and instead looks around the room.

"Right, so, which bedroom's going to be mine?"

My God.

A call confirmed the truth I never knew, and I was saddled with an overgrown child I never asked the rights to. She had only been staying here two days, and while part of me is sick of her and her sarcastic, annoying little quips, the other part of me is...glad to have company, I suppose. The walls don't seem as bleak, though nothing is as bright as it could have been, could have been if I had just been there sooner. Yet with that...with the company comes loneliness. It's been weeks since I thought of what it could have been, things I never knew I wanted, dreams of another body, nicotine patches, the sound of a violin, and it's that, that feeling I want out of this place. I can disappear in silence, but it's harder to stop breathing with another voice in the room.

"I can't get her out of my house, Myrcoft." I say, disgruntled, to the man at the other end of my mobile. Perhaps a bit more than disgruntled - stressed, burdened with a responsibility I never asked to have, burdened enough without the familiarity.

"I'll send a car over for her tomorrow. I was not aware my dear...niece was in town." Myrcoft said, his words drawling on, emotionlessly, right as you'd expect from the government. Great. Another day of this.

"So she is legitimate, then?" I ask, scratching the back of my head, my eyes fixed on the young girl sitting on my couch biting down on a few biscuits - still my biscuits.

"Well as legitimate as she can be, I suppose. She's entirely illegitimate, but as for being my niece, yes, I'm afraid that part is true."

"I see." I murmur, pausing with a small huff, running my fingers over my lips as I lean back against a countertop, staring at the refrigerator where his experiments used to be kept. "I'm sorry, He never mentioned having-"

"A sister? No, of course, neither of us would have. Nether of us wanted to, either. She was a bit of nuisance, really, Verity. Then she got herself killed."

"And how, erm, did she happen to...?" I asked, though I couldn't help but feel as through I was trespassing upon someone else's territory with my question - which was entirely true, bit given the circumstances...Besides, it's not like Mycroft ever told anyone what they wanted to hear. That was all part of being a Holmes, I suppose, and perhaps I should thank God there aren't many of them - not many of the right ones, at least. That was one of the reasons's he and Mycroft never got along very well. And one of the reasons we didn't get on well now.

"Heroin, I believe, or one of those other narcotics. Sherlock would have been the one to ask about that."

Yes, he would have. He would have been the one to ask about anything.

"Right, well-" I started, but was promptly cut off.

"I'll send the car at three o'clock tomorrow. No sense bothering you with my misfit of a niece."

"Alright."

"Oh, and John?"

"Yes?"

"Let's not mention this to anyone else, alright? It'll just be between us. We wouldn't want word of my…wayward sister getting out to anyone, now, would we?" I could almost hear a smile in his voice, hidden in his words.

"I suppose not." I sigh. Mycroft and his secrets, always getting in the way of productivity, as He once said. In the way of anything decent had been my own choice of words at the time, but now I couldn't help but agree, even if He wasn't here to see it.

"Right. Goodbye, John." Mycroft said, hanging up the phone, repeating the same words that he last said to me. The last words he ever said, to anyone. To me. And there was an ache, the phone hanging silent for a moment, then it went dead, and for a moment I was stuck in a flashback of memories. The way his coat wafted in the wind as he fell, his arms and legs swinging, out of fear, or determination, but I suppose it could've been both. I hoped it'd been neither.

Then all at once I'm back, standing at the flat, my eyes still fixed upon the refrigerator.

"Who was that?" The peppy little feminine voice asks from the living room, and for a moment I don't respond.

"No one." I reply flatly.

"Not a soul I've ever met could ever talk that long to 'no one'. Go on, tell me who it was." She coaxes. I walk to the living room and meet her gaze, a curious one, it is, probing, a bit like his.

"Alright, I was talking to your uncle."

"Shirley?" She asks, all too hopefully. Either she's incredibly stupid, or she thinks that I am. I stare, then shake my head, sighing heavily.

"Myrcoft." I say.

"Oh." She pauses, her face scrunching together as she thinks. Negatively, no doubt. "He's coming to get me, isn't he?"

I nod.

"Tomorrow." Too busy today, I suppose. Always busy, especially when you need him. Not like Him.

"Right." She sighs, nodding as she rises to her feet, brushing off crumbs of food from her shirt as she stares at me. "It's a good thing I won't be going home with him, then."

If she thinks that she's saying, she's absolutely, positively wrong.

"Do you have any more of that jam?"

Two days, and already tomorrow can't come soon enough.

* * *

**Thanks for reading Chapter 1! Sound's like someone's going to be having a few unwanted adventures here in a bit...**

**Please take the time to jot down a little rate and review, because the more feedback from you guys the better the story gets - if there are certain characters or incidents that are alluded to that you would like to know more about, just say so! I'd love to hear what you guys have to say about it. Thank you so much! I hope to update weekly, and would like to see a review every once and a while to keep me going on, so if you guys like it please, PLEASE say something because it's great motivation, and I want to keep you guys entertained as much as I can. Thank you!**


	2. Flat Mates (SH)

**Chapter 2 takes place from the illustrious and very obviously NOT DEAD Sherlock Holmes' perspective, and contains a little pair of misfits that he manages to figure out in two seconds flat - of course, can they catch onto him and his past quite as ****easily? I guess we'll just have to see...**

* * *

**Sherlock – The Fallen Idol**

**Part 2; Flat Mates (S.H.)**

One hundred and sixty-seven days, that's how long it has been since I 'died'. Over five months should be long enough for some people, or at least _most_ people of average mindsets to have forgotten about me. What I looked and sounded like at most – no doubt they remember the name of 'Sherlock Holmes', the title which I've since abandoned, and am now living under a pseudonym. A security precaution, just as having changed my appearance with a number of dyes and bleaches of my hair, In addition to learning a few new tactics with cosmetics over the past few months.

I spent the past hundred and thirty-six days living in France. Prior to that I spent a week in Berlin where I narrowly avoided being pinned for a murder which I did not commit, only solved, such is often the case - multiples I have figured out since. And following my latest incident with a young finnish con artist, it is now that I have finally decided to return to London - to home. Not home entirely, of course, there are certain places I must thoroughly avoid; our old flat at Baker Street at the top of the list, though I doubt my old colleague John Watson still resides there. And of course there is Mrs. Hudson, but I can't risk seeing her, nor can I risk seeing any of my old…friends. Even the idea of going near Scotland Yard is far from a wise ideal. And yet, I still have to make a final conclusion about residency.

I've decided to search the local want-ads in the paper for shared companions, and have come up with two possibilities; the first being a little flat south of my present location on Oakeshott owned by a man the name of Robert Carlyle and the other, a slightly larger flat to the west end of town owned by a William Chamberlain. I'm meeting with Carlyle today, and if things do not go properly, I will be meeting Chamberlain on the next.

I've decided to see Chamberlain about his flat.

The flat isn't going to be cheap. I can tell that the moment I knock upon the door – hard, solid, well-made and perfectly structured wood. Not a thing usual for this neighborhood, but perhaps for the person inside – Ah, there he is.

Same height as me; green eyes, curly, light colored brown hair, thin lips, pale skin, wide brow. He's inquisitive, I can tell that just by the way that he looks at me, and he's clearly just finished getting dressed, as he's tugging at the sleeves of his shirt - a late sleeper, or early to fun, but at second glance I decide on the former. I can tell from the lavish clothes that adorn his body that he is obviously a professional something - finances, perhaps. A banking executive would be reasonable, if it weren't' for his late sleep, so the idea is law - though he must just be starting out in his career since he's in need for a flat mate. That, or he's falling out of his office, either way is a fifty-fifty chance; he's still quite young, nearly my age, in fact. Doesn't drink tea nor coffee, his fingers wouldn't look as cold if he did. No pets, thank God. I think I may have found my new flat.

"Are you the man here about renting?" He asks, though he obviously doesn't have to. He knows what I'm here for, it's written all over his face.

"Yes." I state simply, giving a quick bow of my head for effect - more for him than I.

"Right. William Chamberlain, you are?" He asks, offering me his hand. I shake it.

"Arthur Doyle." I reply, giving him the alias I've been using for the past several months.

"You smoke?"

"Fresh off." I raise my arm, showing him a pair of nicotine patches strapped to my arm. He smirks, a man of humor.

"Ah, me too." He says, pulling up his own sleeve, flashing a matching patch on his own, smiling at me. I grin, falsely. Nothing better than a good act. He's quite the opposite of me in this regard. "Come in, Arthur, I'll show you around."

He takes me up the stairs. He shows me each of the rooms, where things are kept, and etcetera. He asks me questions about myself, some of which I answer, others I don't. I ask him nothing about himself; there is nothing I need to know that looking around the flat can't tell me. He's organized, especially with his work, I can't find a thing about it scattered in the house save for a few business cards from a law firm, though after further inquisition I decide he is far too kind to be a lawyer himself, so his occupation is still a mystery. Mr. Chamberlain has an excess adoration of the outdoors - a wilderness magazine mixed in between a collection of Fitzgerald and a battered copy of Hemingway, a stuffed bird upon the hearth, and an almost scientific index of birds pasted upon one of the walls. He keeps frequent female company, as there's a female's bottle of scented shampoo kept in the shower, as well as soap, a spare toothbrush, more than a few unfinished books of conflicting taste scattered about the flat, and not to mention a chest upon the floor filled with a woman's clothes – young, probably a girlfriend, as the absence of a ring on his finger prove she's unmarried, but he's yet to mention her to me. I've also deduced that he spends very little time here himself, as the flat is far too immaculate for that, and that whatever occupation he does have must take up a considerable amount of his time. There is a lack of intimacy, as I've yet to see a possession of erotic context, which hints at the possibility of she being his sister, or a dear friend, but his need for a flat mate suggests a recent falling out with her, which would more than easily support the aforementioned lack of intercourse.

"So are you still interested, or would you rather bale out now before you have any commitments?" William asks finally, wondering if I'll take him up on his offer.

"I'll take it." I answer.

"Wow, that quickly?" He asks, a bit surprised, but he recovers within seconds. "When would you like to move in."

"As soon as possible."

"Tomorrow?" He suggests. I hear the door downstairs open; someone's here.

"Tomorrow?" I repeat, thinking it over. "Wouldn't you like to speak to your girlfriend about it before you move in a flat-mate?"

"Girlfriend?" He asks, astonished. No, he doesn't have a girlfriend. No, a sister.

"Flat-mate?" Inquires a separate voice; female, coming from behind us - ah, the object of inquiry. William's eyes look behind me, focusing half in sympathy, the other half in surprise. I turn.

Our intruder is a young woman, a bit sweaty, just in from a run. Quite fit, baggy clothes stashed around her body, a nearly empty bottle of water cradled in her hands like a prize which she raises to her lips, taking a drink as she stands in our presence. She's got dark brown, curly hair tied behind her head, out of her face for ease of navigation and orientation, save for a stray pair of bangs. She's several years younger than both William and I, twenty-two, well-educated, probably blunt with her words, and entirely focused on William. The ware on her shoes suggests she runs quite often; a pair of the most obnoxiously yellow shoes I've ever seen, which briefly remind me of Molly and her absurdities, and judging from the small bruise upon her arm and ankle she's not the most balanced. Her facial structure is familiar - long face, thin lips and rounded nose, but is most definitely a stranger to my eyes.

"I thought I was your flat mate, Will?" She asks, torridly, though not extremely upset. She's quite enjoying it, really.

"Yes, well, I can't exactly just have you around while I'm trying to pay the bills, now, can I." William argues - poorly, if I do say so myself.

"You could have told me about it before you went looking for one." She suggested, which was entirely true.

"You're not always around. Besides, you won't mind? Sleeping on the couch is a bit of a hobby of yours anyways." He sighs gruffly, and she smiles.

"Alright, fine. He can stay." She agrees a bit absentmindedly, but roughly, finally turning her eyes to me. She sizes me up just as I do to her, guessing, inquiring as to who I am and what I'm doing here just in one look - an almost professional, inquisitive air about her, eyes searching as though for a crime, but wise in the way that John had been, without bias, only a search for truth. The book of Fitzgerald is hers.

"So is this him?" She asks, nodding her head towards me as she glances to William.

"Yes." He answers, sighing, placing his hands upon the countertop he's been standing by. She steps towards me, doubting, calculating, then offers her hand.

"Scarlet Chamberlain." She announces, too proudly, smiling. "You are?"

"Arthur Doyle." I reply, curt, straight to the point, taking her hand and giving it a fast shake.

"Sorry if I gave you a bit of a scare there. I'm sure my brother's been trying to evict me for months." She says, tossing a scornful glare to William, who returns it with a look of disapproval.

"You two are siblings, then?" I inquire, though I know that it's entirely false. There's not a drop of DNA shared between them, they're far too different. Nothing about them is alike; except for perhaps the way they seem to be reading one another's minds whenever they share a look between them. They're hiding something by pretending to be siblings, but I'd rather figure that out myself than ask. God knows I need something to do, but the absence of family photographs - or photographs of even themselves in general, what with a woman in the flat, makes it obvious this is no ongoing scheme, but new and easily broken.

"Unfortunately, yes." William sighs.

"Oh, don't sound so put-out. You love me and you know it." Scarlet snickers, withdrawing her hand, her attention focusing on something kept on the countertop instead of either of us. "Are those muffins?"

William senses something's wrong.

"Yes, but they're not for-" His scolding is too late, she's already grabbed one and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth, letting out little hums of pleasure as she chews.

"These are delicious." She says, turning around, her mouth still quite full. "Glad to have you, sir. Will; I'm going to take a bath." She waves us off, and disappears into another room.

There's silence, then William decides to apologize for his 'sister's actions.

"Sorry about that. She's…just like that sometimes." He sighs, giving me a pitying look. "I've been trying to get her out of here for months, but she just keeps coming back. She's like a…I don't know, puppy or something, but she doesn't look as cute when you invite a girl over."

"I see…" I comment quietly, not really trying to make conversation. "So we're set for me moving in tomorrow, then?" He hesitates, shrugging, then nods.

"I don't see why not." He murmurs.

"It's a deal then. I'll be here by three tomorrow."

He smiles, and offers me his hand. We shake, making a promise out of it.

"Well, then. Welcome to the flat, Mr. Doyle. We're _very_ glad to have you."

* * *

**Thank you all so much for sticking around to read Part 2! I guess everyone has a new flatmate at this point...But they'll have to get John and Sherlock back together at some point, what fun would it be if they weren't together? Can someone say Johnlock? But here we're getting ahead of ourselves...Anyways, I hope you enjoyed.**

**Please, PLEASE take the time to jot down a review - every little bit helps! I would love to hear from you guys, and honestly your comments could be the best thing for character development at this point, so please give me a shout out! Anything constructive is welcome, and so are little comments. Anything to keep the story going - Don't be shy!**

**Thank you again, so so much.**


	3. Damn it All (JW)

**Well that didn't take long. Alright, thank you again for sticking around this long. In Chapter 3 we find Asher being boisterous as usual, and John tagging around for all the fun that entails - as well as a bit of interaction you should keep in mind for the next Chapter.**

**Also, special thanks to Demetra Rose for her reviews! I really appreciate them!**

* * *

**Sherlock – The Fallen Idol**

**Part 3; Damn it All (J.W.)**

"Asher, your uncles car is here for you." I shout up the stairs, trying to ignore the moderately attractive young woman standing outside my door, her fingers typing frantically away at the keyboard on her mobile. Anthea; still the only name I had gotten from her.

"Oh, really? Fancy that. Shame I'm not going anywhere." Her defiant voice mumbles down to me. Of course she's not going. I should have known. "Go ahead and send them away, will you?"

She may have been staying in my flat the past three days, but she wasn't staying another minute longer. Not. One. Minute.

"If you don't come down here yourself, I'll…make you." I say, placing my hands upon my hips for effect, even if I don't believe my own threats, tapping my foot in anticipation. They usually come quite empty-handed, my threats, but not today. That I promise myself. Not today.

"You will, eh?" She asks, haughtily, like him, trying to prove a point. "I'd like to see that, John. I'd like to see that very much."

Three seconds flat and I'm at the top of the stairs, marching into the living room, where Asher is sitting lazily on my sofa, chewing on a carrot.

"Come downstairs. Now." I order.

"No." She says, continually defiant.

I'm pulling through this time. I've promised myself this. I've fought in Afghanistan. No teenager can scare me, not even one that shares a bit of his DNA.

She leans forward, staring me down like a rabid dog.

"Make me." She whispers out.

"Alright." I agree, nodding, hesitating. _Damn_. Then I grab the girl's wrist and tug her up from the couch, pulling her to the stairs. She's not putting up much of a fight, but I don't care, that only works to my benefit.

"Ooh, John, you're being so much more forceful than I ever thought Sherlock's lover would be." She grins. I stop.

_What did she just say?_

"Excuse me?" I snap, a bit of unintentional hatred in my voice, not to mention surprise, and a bit of confusion. "Sherlock and I weren't – Nor could I ever have been-"

_His lover?_

"Whatever you say, John." She rolls her eyes. "You and I know the truth."

The truth? _What_ truth? Why does it bother me that she asks that? Why does it bother me enough to stop? I did care for him, yes, but it wasn't like that. It wasn't…It couldn't have been. Why am I even thinking about it?

"The truth?" I ask, a bit more shakily than I'd like to admit, but maybe it's just from surprise. "The truth is that I'm perfectly heterosexual, Asher." I decide to argue. She doesn't know a thing about me, she's only been living here two days. She's nothing like him, she can't know everything. She's not that clever. ~No one could be that clever~.

"Sure you are, John. _Perfectly_ heterosexual, just like Sherlock." She snorts. Now I'm the defiant one. God, she's making me argue. I don't like the feeling of this.

"I could prove it to you." I point out as we reach the stairs, and I begin dragging her down them. Alright, so I could probably be arrested for this, but I doubt Mycroft would let them get far with me. Besides, I get the feeling he might do the exact same.

"Oh, you could? How?" She asks, laughing, as though this is something far more hilarious than it really is.

"I'll…" My eyes go to the first woman I see that's not Asher. "Kiss Mycroft's woman."

She laughs. Again.

"I could kiss her, too, you know, but that's not going to prove anything."

She has a point. But I don't like it.

"Get in the car." I shout, shoving her out the door, though not very forcefully. Damn, I've gotten weak.

She hesitates, and then does ask I ask. I stand there, in the doorway, for several seconds, thinking, just thinking, and staring at the automobile in which Asher is now sitting, impatiently tapping her fingers against the leather seats, watching me, like I'm sort of animal at the zoo. Her green eyes, just staring at me, like his used to do.

I don't have a choice.

"Excuse me, Miss," I start, turning towards the woman.

She looks up. Asher grins. I hesitate.

_God, I don't want to do this._

I lean in and kiss her. We separate. She stares. I flush, biting my lip.

This wasn't worth it. This was _definitely_ not worth it.

Asher's laughing.

I've made a fool of myself. Great job, John. Bloody brilliant, John. Bloody brilliant.

"Don't ever do that again." The woman says after a moment, startled, frightened.

My sexuality is still in question. I can feel it. Even more so, actually.

_Way to be unconvincing, John. Way to be unconvincing._

"Right. No problem." I breathe, and then enter the car.

And that sodding girl is _still_ laughing.

God, just kill me now.

"That was the most hilarious thing I've ever seen, John! I love you already!" Asher laughs as we drive down the roadway in the back of Mycroft's vehicle. She's gotten too much enjoyment out of this – ~far too much enjoyment. It's driving me crazy. Nearly as crazy as I was after...after the funeral.

"Yeah. Would you mind shutting up about it, now? We aren't exactly the only ones in here." I point out, though she doesn't seem to care. She never cares, about anything, but what to put in her stomach.

"Well it's not like they didn't see it, too – I mean, she's the one you kissed and all." She giggles, pointing to the woman in the front seat, her head down, out of my sight. I can barely make out her face in the side-mirror, not that I mind. I'd much rather never see her again, now. Shame I ruined it like that.

"I wouldn't have done it if you-" I start, albeit grumpily.

"My point exactly." She comments, nodding her head, bobbing it like a little toy that always knows it's right. "You wouldn't have done it if I hadn't questioned you, and thus, you're clearly not-"

"Could we not talk about that now?" I ask, ready to beg. Anything to get the girl to just shut up.

"Alright, what would you like to talk about?" She asks.

"Anything."

"Kittens. Let's talk about Kittens."

Oh, God, it's gotten worse.

I find myself struggling to understand just how this girl is related to him. He was so…unique, and this girl is just…different. In a new way, so close to him, and yet in a way entirely unlike His.

Why does Mycroft's place have to be so far away?

Asher's finally quieted down. It's only taken her twenty minutes, but she's decided to spend the rest of her time staring out of the window, watching the traffic beside us, in a way more like him. More like Sherlock. For the first time in three days, she actually seems like him. A close comparison, really – physically, at least. She's certainly got his arrogance, but not his poise. Not his brains. Sure, she's quite smart – she's figured things out, deduced them in front of me, but this…No, she's not like Sherlock. Sherlock was too different to be like anyone else. Even with crap television.

Her eyes flit back and forth as we drive. Her lips purse together, like his, her lower jaw drops when she breathes, opening a space in her mouth. Her fingers curl around the handle of the door. Impatient, like him, I imagine. We come to a stop. The driver coughs – he's got a bit of something in his throat, I imagine. I turn back to Asher, and instead I see emptiness.

_Instead I see emptiness!_

Asher's left the door open – she's already crossed the street, waltzing off like she's him for Christ's sake! The driver doesn't even seem to notice; his foots on the gas, and before I can tell him to stop, I'm scurrying out the side of the car as quick as I can.

"Asher, wait!" I shout. She's not going to listen to me. She's never listened to me, why do I even expect anything different?

I fall out of the car, right onto the pavement. It hurts, but we weren't going very fast. A car honks at me – I'm laying in the other lane. I stumble to my feet, and look for any sign of Asher. I see her coat – she disappears behind a building. Within seconds, I'm following after her.

"Asher, _slow down_!" I holler, but I doubt she's heard me. I run to her, or at least to the place I last saw her. I round the corner; she's slowed, but not by much. I still have to sprint to catch up with her.

"This way, John, hurry up!" She shouts back to me, calm as can be, and for once she almost _sounds_ like him.

"You can't just jump out of a moving automobile like that, Asher!" I shout.

"Why not? You did." She reminds me proudly. And unfortunately, she has a point there. A small one, a _very_ small one, but a point.

She turns another corner, and I follow. I round it, just as the last, and watch her rush by a group of three people; a tall, blonde man carrying a microscope into a building, and a young girl, reaching into a car, as well as a young, lanky young man leaning against the bonnet.

Asher passes them with ease, but the woman turns around as I pass with a bunch of boxes in her hands. We nearly collide – I barely dodge her, almost tripping in order to do so.

"Oh!" She jumps; I don't give a look to her face.

"Excuse me, sorry, pardon me," I say quickly, not bothering to look back, as I rush after Asher. I don't even know if she made it into the building.

"Could you _slow down for one moment_?" I shout out to Asher a few moments later, once we've passed the block.

"No, sorry, almost there, John!" She says quickly, a bit of happiness in her voice. I rush, but my leg's starting to ache. I haven't had to move this fast since, well, since he was there.

"Dammit." I murmur, to myself, as she keeps on walking. Finally she stops and pulls on a door, entering a building. I gain on her, and follow through as well.

"Asher, what are we-" I start to ask, but I already know. We're in a coffee shop. She's hungry. Again. And she's already ordered something, standing at the counter with a polite smile on her face as she stares at the man serving her. I'm panting, hunched over a bit, laying my hands upon my knees.

Then she turns to me.

"John, you don't happen to have any cash on you, do you?" She asks.

I should've just stayed in the car.

* * *

**Yes, but what fun is staying in the car?**

**Thank you again for reading - the next bit takes place from Sherlock's perspective. I think we're pretty steadily flipping between them for now. Also, I would really love it if you took the time to write down a review for me! I find them very helpful, and would love you forever if you did! I'll try to continue this sometime within the next few days.**

**Thanks!**


	4. Inquiries (SH)

**Oop, sorry about taking so long to get this up guys. Got a bit busier than I expected, but here's the next bit, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**Sherlock – The Fallen Idol**

**Part 4; Inquiries (S.H.)**

I've moved into the new flat today. I'm on my way there now. I've taken a taxi from my previous location to the new flat - William has volunteered to help move some of my things with his car. It's an expensive one. An import from Germany, I believe. He's far too rich to need a flatmate, let alone two, but neither did I when I got John. I feel guilty leaving him sometimes. But I can't think of that now.

Scarlet's decided to try her luck at helping William and myself move my things. She's in the car behind with him, but she doesn't want to be. Not today. Yesterday she loved him, today she does not. I feel it's got very little to do with my coming, but instead a conversation they'd had last night after my leaving.

We arrive at the flat and unload the first of the cars, letting the taxi leave. Scarlet's stronger than she lets on, but it suits her, not like the others of her sex. William, however, has something on his mind and is obviously distracted by it as we unload.

"Will," Scarlet started with a bit of a huff in her voice. She's annoyed. I grab a box from the boot. "Do you remember when I moved in?" She asks, like he's forgotten something important about it. I'm curious.

"Yes." William answers after a moment. He looks like he could use a cigarette. The nicotine withdrawal is hard on him - I can see beads of sweat on his forehead. Scarlet carries on as usual, taking the box I give her.

"Arthur's far more organized than I was." She snickers. It takes me a moment, but only a moment, to recognize my own pseudonym.

"He's got more things." William comments as I lean in for another box - my notebooks. "If I recall you only had the clothes on your back, a bag of books, and a small trunk of memorabilia from home." Scarlet giggles, and nods, but the red on her cheeks says it's not a happy memory. In fact it's quite the opposite.

"What type of memorabilia?" I ask. If she's a collector I might as well know of what before I go throwing it away. Never had it done me any good to throw Johns things to rubbish, and I doubt it would have done better here.

"Personal." Scarlet mentions, straight-faced. She doesn't want to go there, and opens the door to the flat herself, stepping inside, disappearing as the door swings shut.

"The past is a touchy subject with that one." William states, obviously enough.

"As it is with the three of us." I remind him. Aside from our interactions yesterday, they know little of me, and I them, though I do know far more than either of them could imagine.

"As it should be." William nods. His fingers twitch together, as they would if he were holding a cigarette between them. "But I can't tell if that makes us a right bunch of misfits, or bitter companions."

Misfits are more likely. John would agree to that. Sherlock Holmes with companions? Never. Only misfits. Just like him.

I take my box into the flat. I don't see Scarlet. Probably in the bathroom, as the door to it is closed and the lights are on. I go back outside, and once I grab my microscope from the car, Scarlet's outside again, standing behind me, absolutely normal, except for her eyes. The pores are a light shade of pink. She hasn't been crying, but her eyes did water. A bad memory indeed.

"Got it?" She asks; her voice deeper, heavier. William hasn't moved - he's stationary, leaning against the hood, calmly.

"Of course." I reply. I hear footsteps approaching, and go to the door. Scarlet's going for something. A person passes behind me - a pedestrian. Female, approximately 110 pounds; young by the sound of it. She's moving fast and isn't out of breath. Someone else follows her - an older male, a bit out of step, limping, tired. Flustered by the sound of his breath. He door swings closed behind me, I stare at the steps - 12. Then I hear it. A voice. Just like his. Saying "Excuse me, sorry,". I freeze. It can't be. Baker street is far from here. He's have no reason to be. I hear the door open behind me, and turn, immediately, frowning. Hoping.

"Did someone just pass?" I ask Scarlet, interrupting her humming - Bach, by the sound of it.

"Pardon?" She asks, in a French accent of all things.

"Did someone just pass by on the street? A man?" I ask.

"Yeah." She replies, a single eyebrow raised in confusion. The accent is gone. "An older guy, with his daughter."

Daughter? It couldn't have been, then.

"You're sure it was his daughter?" I ask. She nods.

"Quite positive. That or it was his niece. I think they live up the block, actually." She tells me. It definitely couldn't have been him, then. "Are you alright?" She asks.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"I'm sorry. Just misreading you, I suppose. You had a look."

"A look? What look?"

"I don't know. Confused. Lost. Like you remembered something you didn't want to." She says it like she pities me. "A look I get sometimes."

"Impossible. You can't see your own face. You don't know what looks you give. And what was that?"

She's startled.

"What was what?"

"That ridiculous accent."

"Oh!" She flushes. "I'm sorry; I've been working on it. It just slips out sometimes, you know. I was an actress once - Trained at a university." She says. An actress? How sad. It makes sense, but it wasn't quite what I'd imagined.

"I see." I murmur, going up the stairs.

"Would you like a tea, Arthur? Or coffee? Will's going for some." she says, informing me of this. I think he's going to go find cigarettes instead. She seemed more the literary type, but that could come hand in hand with eccentrics, but I should have guessed it from her poise.

"No, thank you. I'll get my own later."

"You're sure?" She quarries.

"I insist."

Scarlet and I stay apart while William is out. I organize my things, situating them in my new room accordingly. The most interaction we've shared since William left was when she yelled at me for shoving a piano out of my room and leaving it in front of the bathroom door to block the way. Since then she's stayed perfectly still, sitting on the couch, legs crossed like a pretzel in relaxation, reading a biography from the second World War by a man named Robert Leckie who apparently served in The Pacific theater, for she's continually murmuring to herself about the way the Japanese soldiers would sneak up on their unsuspecting prey in the darkness of the hot night.

I ignore her as best I can, but ignoring people takes effort, and I'd much rather be alone. I can think more clearly, and if it weren't for a necessity to be closer to where I once was, I would have stayed alone.

I grab a box of samples I stuck in the fridge and go to the microscope to begin my research, and Scarlet decides to speak.

"So why did you chose to go blonde?" She inquires, innocently enough. I set one of my samples in place.

"It was cheapest." I reply; which is entirely true. "How could you tell? Roots or-"

"Eyebrows." Scarlet replies promptly. I see her shrug he shoulders from behind the armrest. "I wanted to be a ginger once, you know. As a matter of fact, I was for a while, but Will decided Brunette me was...Far more sociable, you know what I mean?"

"No. And I don't care to." Hair color has nothing to do with the ability to socialize. Not unless England has started to believe in witches again, and as far as I am aware, it hasn't.

"Well, at least you're honest." She sighs. "I liked being a red-head, myself. I may go back someday, but not now."

"Why do you insist on talking?" I ask abruptly. She's breaking my focus. I can't concentrate on her and my experiments, nor do I have the authority to ask her to leave yet.

"Just slips out naturally, I suppose." She comments. "Why do you insist on being so cold-hearted."

I stop. Then breathe. For a moment she reminded me of Molly.

"I don't insist. I am. And I have my reasons."

"As a sociopath, I presume?"

"Yes. But how did you deduce-"

"You had it written on a paper. Something about how to calm a sociopath." She points out, frowning, as she glances back to me. "In case you haven't noticed; I have got eyes."

"I have. Brown ones in fact - a bit of green swirled round the iris'. Good vision, as you've got no contacts or sign of glasses. Don't think I miss the obvious, because I don't. I never do."

She falls silent, I go back to my interests. Then I hear the pads of her book shut, and I sigh. She won't be dropping anything soon. Within seconds she's up on her feet walking towards me lazily; and I'm starting right back at her.

"Alright Mister 'never miss a beat'; why are William and I living together?"

She's proposed a challenge - a challenge of intellect. My day has just reached its high.

"You're not really siblings." I point out. She nods, responding quickly.

"That much is obvious. But it's not a full answer."

"There's no physical relationship between either of you - no attraction, either, though you both admire one another like children worship idols. There's a great deal of history and respect between you."

"Of course. He's a brilliant man; if I didn't admire him I'd be ashamed of myself. And the respect feels a bit one-sides sometimes."

"Your side?"

"Yes."

"No parents."

"They're around."

"No _active_ parents, then. Will's got some as well, and he cares for them just as they care for him; very little."

"It's true." She frowns a bit at this – not good memories coming to her mind, I imagine, but I am right, and her expression only enforces that.

"And he's got a brother?"

"One that's much older, yes."

"Forties?"

She laughs, and then nods.

"He's not active either, but yes."

"I was getting to that. You both live together because you've got no one else. You care for one another like siblings, so you create a rue to be a pair. Your siblings are far too young to let you in, and your parents refuse to because I'll guess you did something to betray their confidence. Not drugs; you don't have the addictive traits like William. Probably...sex or a family scandal; betrayal, went against your father's wishes and wound up finding a friend in William. He's got a past military career, I can tell that, but he's gone and retired now, or he's been kicked out of there as well. The two of you connected immediately on the same plain, then - you even convinced him to quit smoking; but he's started up again when you're not around, so you made an event of it. William already said that you moved in with very little in your possession. So, your father probably kicked you out of the house."

She agrees, if only a little, bowing her head in a nod as she rubs her fingertips together gently. She's uncomfortable with my deduction, but I am right.

"It's all true." She nods, breathing in sharply, staring down at her fingers cautiously, before she turns her gaze back to me, not looking the slightest bit startled. She is an actress – a good one, but not good enough to fool me. "But it isn't my father that kicked me out. It was my mother." She adds, her voice a bit of a cracked whisper; it haunts her. She turns to leave, but I call out to stop her.

"Ah, Scarlet - one thing; are either of you really named Chamberlain?" I ask.

She smiles half-heartily, and then shrugs, running her fingers against the doorframe.

"You tell me."

She grins and leaves. I quickly decide that there has never been a Chamberlain in either of their lives. They picked it from somewhere, but where. _That_ is mystery - a mystery that shouldn't take me too long to solve.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading, guys! I'll try to get the next bit up on Saturday.**

**If you could leave a review, that would be fantastic! Thanks again!**


	5. No Reason (JW)

**WOOH! I'm actually on time for once! I hope you guys are enjoying as the plot starts to thicken a bit, though even then we aren't too close yet. If you could, please take the time to write a review at the end of this - I would love to hear anything you guys had to say. Suggestions, or even criticism would really be helpful. I got a handful of more people following the story, so hopefully you guys like what you see!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Sherlock – The Fallen Idol**

**Part 5; No Reason (JW)**

Asher's decided to get a pastry, and I, dragged unwillingly along after jumping from a moving vehicle for absolutely nothing, decided to get a cup of tea for myself, seeing as I would only wind up paying for the sneaky young woman as well. She got us a little seat at a tall table near the window; facing one other, with the light of the sun's rays basking down on us like we were exactly where we were supposed to be at this moment. But that wasn't true, of course. Not entirely true at all. We were supposed to be with Mycroft by now, and my bitterness, I fear, is clearly etched upon my face as I stare at the obnoxiously loud female across from me. I even start tapping my fingers against the table with my free hand as I drink my beverage, phone on the counter waiting for the inevitable text from Mycroft.

"Why won't you go to Mycroft's?" I ask, sounding a bit more defeated than I actually feel - a mistake on my part. I'm sure that I'll regret it later, probably because of the run. She looks up at me, still chewing, and shrugs.

"Don't want to." She replies simply enough, though its clearly not what I was looking for. She knows that. She knows a lot of things, as a matter of fact. Like Him. "Why won't you let it go?" She inquires, almost sounding a bit dignified as she says so - more like Mycroft for an instant than He.

"Because you're staying in my flat, wasting space when-"

"Wasting space when what? You could be sulking alone instead of with company?" She asks, perching one of her little eyebrows higher than the other. "No. I don't think that's what Sherly would have wanted."

For a second I almost accuse her of not being able to know what Sherlock might have wanted, but I stop myself. She was his niece for God's sake; of course she knew what he was like. She was half like him herself, more so if we wasn't so hungry all the time. Less if she knew how to think about others.

"No, I just think I should be able to do what I'd like in my own flat without having to worry about Mycroft's niece." I sigh. She frowns at this more than anything, and is silent for quite some time before she speaks again.

"Why do you do that?" She questions me, but I'm not sure what about; does she not like the way I drink my tea, perhaps. It would only be yet another thing on her growing list, I'm sure.

"Do what?" I ask, trying to clear up my own awkward confusion.

"Call me Mycroft's niece, not...Sherlock's, or theirs?" She wonders, and I even stop myself here. Why don't I say it? I don't even know myself - I hadn't even noticed I was doing it. And now that she points it out, I can't even answer.

"I don't know." I respond, shaking my head ever so lightly, pursing my lips together as I think it over for another moment or two. I say it in my head all the time, why don't I say it aloud? Him. Holmes. _Sherlock._ "Habit, maybe? Not saying his name anymore, now that he's-"

The door behind me opens swiftly, and loudly, interrupting what I was going to say. I glance behind to check who it was - something he always would have observed, even if he was better at guessing without seeing.

It's the man we passed on the street, with the girl I nearly ran into. His eyes skim over us, just like they do with everyone else, and I look back to Asher. She's stopped eating for once, and I start talking again.

"I can't tell you why I do it, I just do." I say. "And I think it's probably better for you if you go to stay with your uncle and not with me, holding on to some...dead dream that maybe he'll pull off a miracle and show up." I murmur, wondering, fleetingly, if maybe He could. If anyone could, it would be Him...But I can't dwell on thoughts like that anymore, and neither can she. Its been long enough for wishful thinking.

Asher's uncommonly quiet. She's either hurt inside, or she's started to ignore me, and I decide it's the later once I find where she's gazing. She keeps staring at the man. He gets two coffees, and takes a seat a few tables from us - behind Asher, sitting where she can't see him. She flushes, and realizes that I've spoken, and I'm awestruck.

"You mean it's possible for a Holmes to be attracted to someone?" I ask, baffled, with a light huff of laughter - a grin. I wouldn't know a thing about Mycroft's personal life, but Sherlock had never taken a lover. Not that I was aware of, at least, and I sure as hell would have noticed if he had. She jumps slightly, and furrows her eyebrows.

"Excuse me?" She asks, confused. She's hiding it now. I chuckle. Nice try, but I'll never believe it. The man's talking on his mobile now, quietly, I can't even hear him.

"That man that just walked in; you were staring at him." I point out to her, and she seems surprised by that as well.

"Was I? That's curious."

"Not really - you find him attractive."

"That's ridiculous." It's official now. With the red of her cheeks, it's official. She does, and I chuckle again.

"Right, right, I'm sorry. Silly of me to suggest such a thing." I snicker. The man finishes on his phone, grabs the drinks, and rises, but he's left something in the seat - his wallet, I believe. He moves to walk past us, and I reach out to him.

"Excuse me, sir," I call out. Asher is immediately horrified as the man stops beside us.

"John, what are you-" She starts in a whisper, I cut her off.

"You've left something in your seat."

The man stares in confusion, surprised and concerned, obviously even a little uncomfortable.

"Have I?" He asks, a smooth voice. Asher stares at him, her cheeks pink. He glances back at the table, notices the wallet, and smiles. "Oh, I have. Thank you."

"Not a problem." I shrug. He goes to retrieve the wallet, and I look to Asher. Her expression is priceless. It's a mix of horror, thanks, confusion, and awe. I can't help but laugh - even as the man comes back.

"I wouldn't have liked to leave that behind, thank you." He says with a smile. "What's your name, sir? I'd love to thank you properly."

"John Watson." I answer.

"John Watson?" He repeats back to me, interested, and sets one of the drinks upon the table, then offers me his free hand. "Well, thank you, Mr. John Watson."

"It's Doctor Watson, actually." Asher shouts out quickly, trying to look smart, sitting up straight. An effort He never needed - never would have wanted, either, for making impressions. He did that well enough on his own.

"Is that right?" He asks, his eyes a little wider, in admiration or respect, I'm sure, as he looks at me.

"And I'm Asher Holmes." She adds.

"Right, well, hello, Asher." He says with a smile, extending his hand to her. "I'm William Chamberlain, and its an absolute pleasure to meet the both of you." He speaks eloquently enough - probably educated at a University, and a good one, by the sounds of it. "Do the pair of you, by chance, live close? I believe you nearly trampled someone quite close to me a bit ago."

Asher's face hardens a bit at this, and I can't help but smirk. So he's got a girlfriend. Never have I seen a Holmes in this sort of position before, and I chose to relish it - especially after what she's already put me through this morning with Anthea.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to run her over," Asher says smoothly, trying to stay composed, but I can see her disappointment in every look she gives to the table. "But no, I don't - _we_ don't live close."

"I'm afraid we live on Baker Street - we were passing through when Asher decided she needed another meal." I point out. She gives me a look, as though I've just called her fat, when truly she could probably stand to gain a few pounds, and the only large thing on her is her mouth.

"Oh, well, that's a shame." William says, setting his hand in a relaxed manner upon the back of my chair, staring down at the both of us while he stands. "My sister and I have just got an extra renter that's moved in with us - it would have been nice to invite a few of our neighbors over to welcome him in."

I frown, sympathizing for his disappointments sake, but Asher's missed all but one word in his verbal paragraph.

"Your sister?" She asks, extremely hopeful. "That was your _sister_ that John nearly killed?"

He laughs, as do I, but mine comes from a far better place, and from the look upon her face, not her words. She's even sat up straighter.

"Why, yes." He replies, a bit too kindly. "Who else would she have been? Not my lover, surely. Not that she isn't beautiful, of course - God knows she's lovely, but the two of us could never get on in that sort of a way - even if we weren't siblings; we'd murder one other before the night were through."

That's the first time I've ever heard a man refer to his sister as beautiful - perhaps she's only a half-sibling, or an in-law, married to a brother of his. It's strange, but I'll soon forget it. But maybe I should have noticed. Maybe it was a good thing. To see, and to observe, as He would have stated.

"Oh, is she too bossy for you? Too logical or something?" Asher inquires, innocently interested with ulterior motives, I suspect.

"Not nearly logical enough, I'm afraid." He sighs, sounding a bit like a defeatist. "I hope neither of you run across her some night while she's been drinking. It might prove to be fatal."

"I would hope not." I comment quietly, and Asher simply smiles.

"As do I." He nods, a bit too seriously for my liking. "I'm afraid I should get going, though. She's expecting me back with her coffee in a moment."

"Oh, must you? We were having such a lovely little chat." Asher murmurs with a frown.

"I'm afraid so - she can get quite cruel when kept waiting." William sighs, picking up the extra coffee he'd gotten. "Like so many a good man."

"Well, if you're ever around Baker Street, feel free to stop in on us. We're at 221b." I tell him politely, nodding. He smiles, and bows his head graciously. There's not much truth to my statement, not that he would follow up on it if there were, but I'm sure Asher appreciates the sentiment at least.

"That would be fantastic. Thank you." He says, grinning. "It really was wonderful to meet the pair of you."

"It was wonderful to meet you as well, William!" Asher blurts out, fervent and quick. I try not to laugh, and decide to add something of my own.

"Give my apologies to your sister for me, will you?" I ask. He laughs, nods, and smiles warmly.

"I'll do my best." He says, then disappears backwards through the door. Not even a second passes before Asher speaks to me.

"He's a genius, isn't he?" She asks, flustered and grinning.

"I didn't notice." I state simply, though her thoughts on him were entirely too obvious. She frowns a bit, and purses her lips together. "I was too busy speaking with him, if you hadn't noticed."

"Fine..." She huffs, then pauses. "But..you're letting me stay, then?" She inquires. "You did say that 'we' are at 221b." She points out, her eyes staring at me like a puppy begs for food. I had said it without really thinking it out, but the more I think, the less I mind. I've had a better time today than I have for a while, if I'm being honest with myself. I'm less lonely, less...without him.

"Yes." I answer, nodding. As much as I didn't want to say it, and may regret it later. Or already. It'd be a lie to say I wasn't doubting myself. But what good was that. "Yes, I suppose I did. Welcome to the flat, Asher."

She smiles.

I've decided to have another late night tonight - its 1 o'clock and I still haven't finished with work. Asher's already gone to bed, or she's at least claimed to. God knows she needs to sleep. The occasional thump or sound of rustling coming from her room - His old room - assures me that she hasn't, however, but for the moments between them, the constant rattling of my fingers against the keys of my laptop remind me that I'm awake.

It's been about a week since I officially permitted Asher to stay with me at the flat. She's been decent company - she reminds me of him more than I'd like to attest to, like the other night when we ran out of milk. Mycroft sends a text nearly twice a day to check on her, and includes a list of things she shouldn't be allowed to do; cooking being the highest priority. I'm not sure if he wants her staying with him, or is just trying to protect her from harm. I've come to assume the later, as he's only requested her presence once. She went, for about an hour, and returned with the shortest temper that I've seen her have yet.

As much as I appreciate having another face around the flat, like old times, I've become so much more aware of just how little privacy I have with her. She's a fine mix of both of her uncles; she's got both of their carelessness, His attention to detail, Mycroft's routine and secrecy, and His obsession. Then there are parts of her that are so unlike either of them that they have to be original, mutated, or given to her by some strange being that had to have been involved in her creation. I've come to the point where it's easy for me to tell when she's lying; it took me far longer with Him, and even then sometimes it was hard to tell, but Asher can't hide her emotions as well. She has no mask. But I'm afraid she's gotten to that point with me as well - at least some of the time.

"You miss him." She declared yesterday morning while I was making a breakfast for the pair of us. I couldn't speak, I just stared down at the jam I spread over the toast; watching it seep down into the pores of the bread. "I can see it. All the time; you miss him more than any of us."

I couldn't help but think that it was true. She's got a free spirit that even He didn't posses, not all at once at least. I could feel my hand start to tremble, and my knees felt weaker as I relived memories of that day. Then she went off about a pathetic novel she'd just read, and while I could breathe again, I couldn't help but feel that it was hard to do, like there was once again a heavy weight upon my chest that I couldn't remove. It was perpetually stuck there, and even now, another day later, that weights load hasn't lessened in the slightest. If anything, it's gotten harder to bear.

I hear the clap of a book against the solid wood floor coming from Sh-Asher's room; she's just finished reading something in the dark. That or she's got a torch with her.

I come back to the reality of now and realize I've only got a paragraph left of my medical report to finish. I do it, then I stare at the screen for a while, not even thinking.

It takes me a little while to think again - I heave in a breath, then get up from my seat upon the sofa. I need to get some sleep, but I've left nearly all the lights on I the flat, so turning them off is my first duty.

I go to the lamp near the window first and gaze outside; the streets are dark and empty, save for a pair of men. One, tall and thin, walks along the street opposite, the other I can't make out well, but I can see the tip of his cigarette burning as he inhales the smoke. It's odd, how little life there is at night. How death and loneliness seems to wander in the blackened streets among the people, creeping into the minds of everyone awake at these key moments of the night.

I turn out the light, then step slowly away from the window, my feet making loud noises as I move. But then there's another noise that doesn't belong to me, nor to Asher. There's a knock at the door.

I stop immediately - not a muscle of my body moves, and I stare at the hallway. A knock at this time of night only leaves two possibilities to the imagination; someone's seen the light and is need of something, or someone is looking for trouble.

I've yet to decide whether or not to answer the door when the one to Asher's room opens, and she peers outside of it, leaning halfway out of the room, glancing down the hall, then at me.

"Are you going to get that, John?" She asks, staring at me innocently. I stand up straight again, and open my mouth to speak, but she gets ahead of me. "I would, but I'm not wearing any pants."

"What!?" I stare, half confused and half in horror - my god I know she's gone to bed but to announce it like that. There's not even an ounce of shame on her face - no embarrassment whatsoever. "What do you mean you haven't any pants - were you even wearing a shirt a moment ago, or-"

"I've got no pants, John." She repeats, carelessly. "I really think you should-" She starts again, but is interrupted as we hear the knock again.

"I've got it; just... Go put on a pair, will you?" I start for the stairs and she disappears into her room. I'm. Of sure what to expect, but whoever it is can't be half as horrifying as the idea of that girl without a pair of trousers on.

I reach the door and make sure the chains-lock is clasped before I open it. I take a breath, and open the door.

There's a young woman outside with her hand raised as though she's about to knock, and it takes her a second to realize the doors open. She flushes once she does, though, and takes a step away from the door. She's a bit sweaty and breathless; she's been running, and from the looks of it she's just had a bad fall. Her hands are scraped, as are her arms and the knee of her trousers are torn.

"Oh, thank you," She whispers out, to herself, I believe, before I can say anything. "I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you - I saw the light was on, and-"

"It's no problem." I comment, albeit a bit dryly, and she has a smile of innocence. "You look like you've had a fall?"

"I have, yes; I'm afraid I tripped over my own feet. You wouldn't happen to have some bandages lying about, would you?" She asks, her voice far more delicate than her skin by the looks of it. "I doubt the wounds are fatal, but I would appreciate it if you did." I chuckle, grinning a bit, then unlock the door.

"I think I've got some around here somewhere," I nod. "Come in and I'll take a look at it."

She thanks me with a vivid smile as I lead her up the stairs - Asher hasn't got pants on yet, I suppose, for she isn't in the room waiting for us when we arrive. I tell the woman to take a seat on the sofa as I get the bandages, and she does so with a sigh, looking herself over in the light as she waits.

"You knocked on the right door for a cut." I inform her suddenly - She looks up to me, curious.

"And how's that?" She asks, interested.

"I happen to be a doctor."

"Fancy that!" She laughs. "Where were you trained?" I tell her, and she recognizes it. I can tell from the look in her eyes, like He could have. Of course, He would have been able to tell much more than that.

"Military?" She inquires, a bit less cheerful. I nod, grabbing the bandages from a box.

"Retired." I reply. She nods, and she seems glad of it.

"I'm Scarlet, by the way." She says as I take the seat opposite of her.

"John Watson." I reply as she offers me the worst of her scrapes and bleeding hands, which I start to bandage for her.

"And I'm Asher." Jumps in my less-than polite little roommate, appearing from her room and taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, giving Scarlet a speculative glance.

"Right, this is my flat-mate," I inform her, a bit embarrassed at the realization that I've got a very young woman living with me, which definitely isn't a good thing for impressions, but it doesn't seem to phase our guest.

"Oh, hello." She says charmingly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Asher. I'd offer you my hand, but..." She motions toward the bandage I'm wrapping over her hands, but Asher doesn't look.

"Sorry John nearly ran you over last week." Asher says spontaneously, confusing both scarlet and I. Sometimes I don't know what she goes on about - she can make as little sense as a goose sometimes, but occasionally shell have a point.

"Pardon?" Scarlet asks, furrowing her brows together.

"You're William's 'sister', aren't you?" William? She can't be talking about the bloke we met at the cafe last week.

"William? William...Chamberlain? You've met my brother?" Scarlet asks, looking upset, astonished, and worried all in one. Asher frowns.

"Yes, last week. Didn't...he mention us? You're at 221B baker street."

"I know where I am, thank you. But no, He didn't..." She trails off, sounding a bit concerned.

"I don't see why he would," I comment, in all honesty. "It was just a casual meeting."

"Did he happen to drop his wallet?" Scarlet asks, not missing a beat.

"Well, yes. He did, actually." She almost looks relieves by this, and smiles at me.

"Oh, we'll, that explains it. Yes, he mentioned a kind stranger, but not by name." She says, though a part of me finds something odd in her words - something a bit heavy. "I suppose I can attest to your kindness now as well."

"Yes, John is quite nice. He's let me stay with him since my uncle died," Asher states calmly, and I feel myself stop breathing for a moment. In the week and a half that I've know her, this is the first time I've heard her admit it. The first time she's said that he's _actually_ gone, and never coming back. And in a way it startles me, stops my breath, like she's given up hope. And if she's given up hope...

I blink after what feels like forever, and notice Scarlet staring at me with a look that can only be interpreted one way; my emotions have been written on my face, for however brief a time, maybe it was just the hitch in my throat, but she understands. I can see it in her eyes. Then it's over, I'm breathing again, and she looks to Asher.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Scarlet says, her voice holding something in it I know as pain and sympathy. "It's not easy, losing a loved one. As a matter of fact," Her breath hitches, and for whatever reason, I feel her shiver. She trembles as I hold her hand, and she glances down, before her eyes force their way back to Asher. "It's the hardest thing on earth."

She speaks her last lines slowly, and as true as they are, as much as I believe them, there's a tone of confusion and disbelief in her own voice - then I realize what it is. Asher's indifferent. She's picking at her nails as Scarlet speaks. She doesn't react. She breathes unburdened, unhindered by the death of her uncle. She wants to change the subject.

"Your brother said-" She starts, and I stop her.

"Asher, I think you've been up late long enough." I say, almost shakily. Asher's shocked. I've not ordered her to do a thing since I tried to get her to see Mycroft, and now I've spoke up again as she's tried to talk about William. I finish the bandage on Scarlets right hand and move to the left.

"What?" She asks, nearly stammering from the surprise.

"I'm nearly done with this. I'll be going to sleep as soon as Scarlet's on her way; I think it's best if you go to sleep as well." I reply. I see Scarlets cheeks flush - not just from her run; this has become awkward for her.

"But John, I...Will you and your brother join us for dinner Sunday?" Asher asks suddenly.

"What? Oh, that's kind of you but-"

"I could try to cook."

I move to say no - Christ, that's one of the things on Mycroft's list, the look on my face perhaps says it first, but Scarlet's lips are the first to move.

"I'm afraid Will and I already have an appointment - besides, you've shown enough hospitality to me for once, I wouldn't want to impose. I'm afraid Williams busy with work all this week, and I wouldn't want to leave our new renter alone. It's very kind of you, really, but I'm afraid it's impossible at the moment."

It's a decent answer, a kind one, but Asher sighs, yet I am at least glad it gets me off of the hook.

"Alright. Goodnight - tell your brother hello for me, will you?" Asher asks, offering Scarlet a quick smile as she steps from the room. I don't look at her. I try not to look at her. I can't look at anything at the moment, just the bandage I wrap around Scarlet's hand.

"It doesn't get any easier." Scarlet says after Asher's disappeared through her door, quiet, in a wounded whisper. I look up to her, and see a pain in her eyes that I've felt for far too long.

"I'm afraid I-" I start, pretending, not wanting to admit it. But it's been so hard. He was the first person I saw each morning, the last I saw before I went to bed. He was a constant. But I can't lie, not this once. She can see through me too easily. And I don't know how, and I don't know why, yet from the look on her face...It's like she knows the story. All of it. But that's impossible. Even the public...The public that betrayed him. They couldn't even know.

"It was unexpected." She says. I nod, frowning, feeling a wrench in my heart. "It could have been prevented." I nod again, biting my lip. Then I realize she wasn't asking questions - she could _see_ it. Like she knew.

"John," She breathes quietly, shakily. "I know I've just met you, but I know. How you feel, why you feel it, when - why a doorframe, a word, the look on a persons face can make you squirm. I know it's not my place to say, but…you are going to have a happy ending in this."

Her words surprise me. Shock me. A happy ending? Has she been lying? There is no happy ending to this story. I wanted my best friend, my best friend who at the height of his downfall took his own life. I was the last person he spoke to. The last person he ever spoke to. I was the only person that cared to help him - the only person that believed him, and now I'm locked in my own depravity. There is no good that came out of Sherlock's death. No good at all. No kindness, rescue, escape, harmony. It happened for no reason. He was dead. I never thought him the type, but he was. He took his own life.

It's only as I feel Scarlet touch my face that I realize I've been crying. Then I see that she is, too.

"There is no good in this." I curse under my breath, angry, pained.

"But there is hope." She whispers. "At the end of this, there is hope, John."

I don't want to think anymore. What could she know, anyways? What could she, a God damned stranger, know about Him? About me? About us, or the way that I felt when I heard his last words. Nothing. Nothing. No one could ever know, and that was the part that killed me. Not even Asher.

I finish with the bandages. We say goodbye. Scarlet leaves. I lock the door. I go to my room. I lock the door. I lay on my bed.

I sleep.

And I do not wish to wake.


	6. Completely Illogical (SH)

**Oi, sorry about not updating this for a while guys busy busy busy. Just ran off to see a friend at her university the other day and I managed to FINALLY get this typed up while I was there.**

**ANYWAYS, please enjoy. I dont have much else to say at this point. SO THANK YOU FOR STICKING AROUND!**

* * *

**Sherlock – The Fallen Idol**

**Part 6; Completely Illogical (S.H.)**

I've been staying at the new flat for a week now. I've searched every nook of this place twice over, and every day the relationships between my fellow tenants and myself grow more complicated. Relationships is a metaphor rather than a fact - I very rarely feel much for people, and William and Scarlet are no exception for that. I have a keen interest in them, for their pasts are just as muddled and vague as my own, but it is Scarlet that takes most of my attention. Not because she's a woman - God knows Mycroft would have pointed that out. The only woman that would have been worth it would have been her. But because she's always at the flat. The times she's away are few, unlike William. Each morning he leaves at dawn, carrying a briefcase, or a duffle bag on the weekends, leaving before Scarlet even wakes. But Scarlet, however, only leaves when she goes for a run each day or when someone forces her to. Even I leave the flat more than she.

I've gotten to hear very little about William and Scarlet's own separate pasts, though both now openly admit that they don't share biological relations, and are only brother and sister in a tight bond caused by 'unexplainable circumstances', though they fail to realize everything can be explained. They just refuse to enlighten me, but I like to have a guess. A game. It plays at my intelligence and, on some days, keeps me from getting bored enough to cause trouble for them, despite however much I'd enjoy it. It's nothing I won't be able to figure out eventually, but for now we're on close enough terms that guessing on Scarlet's broken family relationships and William's pride and strict, nearly military stature is enough for me.

Yesterday it was my draw to run errands - Scarlet puts up a protest whenever we ask her to go, claiming we're being sexist and cruel, to which William reminds her she does nothing but mope, run, and bathe. Usually it works, but for whatever reason it didn't, and I was sent in her stead. When I returned, the flat was empty and silent. It was odd to not find Scarlet lurking about, humming, playing piano (poorly – she swears every twelve notes after she misses one), or cooking, but I brushed it off as nothing. I sat down to conduct some studies. An hour passed, and then William was home again with no sign of Scarlet.

"Where's Scarlet?" Was, of course, the first question that William asked upon his arrival. I might have suspected the two were lovers the way they doted upon one another, if it weren't so obvious that they weren't. The made the suspicion easy enough to arrive at, but it was nonetheless untrue, and far harder to prove than may be first thought by people of less intelligence. It was the same question he asked every day, without fail, unless Scarlet appeared in front of him before he could open his mouth.

"Out." I replied, carelessly as I turned a page to my book - or, rather, Scarlet's book. She had a nasty habit of thumbing the pages far too much, wearing the paper down with the oil of her fingertips. William was silent. I heard him set his briefcase gently upon the countertop, as well as a bag of something he'd brought home.

"Impossible. Her shoes are at the door." He said.

"Really? You keep track?" I asked, delightedly interested.

"They're _yellow_." He was right, of course. They were.

"Women tend to have more than one pair of shoes." I point out to him. I can tell he's scoffing, I hear it in the way that he breathes, but he's tense as well.

"Scarlet only has a pair of heels and some boots for the winter – neither of which she'd chose over the yellows - _especially_ the heels." He informed me. True, of course; the thought of Scarlet in heels wasn't as easy to conjure up as it would be for others of her sex. "She was in the bath when I left. How long have you been here?"

"An hour." I answer briskly.

"And you haven't heard a thing from her?" He inquired.

"If I had it would have been mentioned."

"Not a splash of water?"

"No."

"Or her knees ramming against the side of the bath?"

"If you'd like to ask more I can save you some time; my answer _will_ remain no."

William is silent, and I feel an air of dread about him. I turn, and his eyes are fixed upon the bathroom door. I turn my own gaze there as well, and all is still. Odd. I never thought Scarlet would be the type to fall for drowning. But it wouldn't be the first time someone's death had proved me wrong – I didn't' think Moriarty was the type for suicide, either, though it does fit the more time I've had to think about it.

William starts for the bathroom first, but I have less of a distance to go and reach the door before him. The first thing I see is a pair of feet – dry, pale, probably sticking out of the tub for half an hour, at least. The body's not visible from this angle, but I move quickly, William close behind.

The rest of her body is entirely submerged in the water; save for one of her hands and forearms dangling off the side of the claw-foot tub. William grips to the wall as I lurch forward, reaching down, grabbing on to the side of her arm, promptly trying to pull her from the bath – and the next think I feel is the searing pain of my nose being hit with a blunt object of force; Scarlet's knee, followed by a series of splashing and a number of deep breaths.

"Oh, God, Arthur!" Scarlet whimpers out breathlessly – I retract and cover my face with my hand, my god, she's a better aim than I had suspected previously. William takes in a sigh of relief. At least one of us was pleased. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize – what are you doing in here anyways."

"William thought you were dead." I blame him quickly, pointing him out to her as she sits up in the tub a bit, pulling her knees close to her chest to cover herself. She can try to be modest as much as she'd like, but we've already seen everything. Not like that matters to either of us - his refusal to turn away assures me he's seen more than all of it before.

"In the bath?" Scarlet asked, her eyebrows furrowed together as I take a seat on the countertop, pulling my hands back from my face – bleeding, just as I suspected. "Really, Will? Me, drown? Honestly, I thought if someone would've asked you, you would have told them I'm part mermaid; stuck on land, cursed to serve under a cruel witch or something like that – but never 'Oh, she's probably gone and drowned!'"

"Drowning can happen to the best of us under the right circumstances." William pointed out to her. I grab a cloth from the shelves of towels nearby and wipe at my face – the bleeding will die down soon, not a wound I'm unused to, though I am a bit surprised at Scarlet's lack of empathy. "I wouldn't put it past you-"

"Oh quit being such a crab – you are quite like a crab, you know, always trying to tell me what to do with my life," Scarlet started on a rant, but I interrupt her.

"What were you doing in the bath so long?" I ask, and she turns to me, a bit stunned.

"Breaking my record." She answered, shrugging lightly in the water, a snicker growing on her lightly-tanned face. "I was going on five minutes when the pair of you decided to interrupt."

"Five minutes? I'm impressed." William said, looking just as he claimed to have felt. My God, perhaps they _are_ maniacs. At least that would make things interesting.

"Do you do this often?" I asked, and she simply smiled.

"Why do you think I bathe so much?" She suggested, and with that, William turned around back to the door and started out to the kitchen.

"By the way, I brought you something, Scarlet." He called out once he was in there. She paused, confused, then starred with wide eyes at the door.

"What did you bring?" She asked.

"Cinnamon."

"My God, William, you brought muffins!?" She asked, leaping from the water, rushing in my direction to grab a towel, wrapping it around herself carelessly, her wet hair clinging to her skin as she ran towards the kitchen and promptly tore into the box William had set upon the countertop, snatching one of the muffins up as quickly as she cold. Within seconds, she crumpled to the ground with a nearly erotic moan, clutching the muffin close to her chest. Not that I cared, dabbing at my nose.

"I'll just nurse myself, then." I call out dryly, a bit of angst, I suppose.

Bleeding was a bit easier when you lived with a doctor.

Even when he didn't want to, somehow, he always managed to find the time.

It is that statement – or that thought, as it were, that has carried over with me to today. As much as it pains me to admit it, that I've formed an attachment, I have. I miss him. It's taken me a while to admit it, strange as it is. My greatest desire in life is to find truth, yet it's taken me this long to realize it. John always said I needed to feel more – I suppose I have. Moriarty proved that well enough. I just never imagined I'd want to go back this badly. Denying myself. Denying the truth.

It's late tonight – I hear the sound of Scarlet outside my room, on the couch, where she's been sleeping every night since I arrived, but tonight she's watching the television. A bit of a change of pace since she's spent the past four nights with F. Scott Fitzgerald. I'm not sure what's changed her mind tonight, considering last night's dramatic reading of Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr-nce of W-les. William's already gone to bed – I heard him talking to Scarlet not long ago, and heard enough of their conversation to know he wasn't going to be awake much longer.

I walk out of my bedroom quietly. I know Scarlet notices, but I've got plans for tonight. That is, as long as a willing party complies with them.

"William's off to bed already." She comments quietly – her words are a bit slurred, there's something in her mouth. Probably a candy bar or carrot. She's leaning over the couch upside-down, her feet dangling over the back of it, a position I'd seen her in far too many times to care.

"I heard." I comment. Her foot twitches.

"You're nosy." She points out. I shrug. Her toes wriggle in a slow, steady pace. She's bored. Brilliant.

"I prefer observant."

"You would." She sighs, sitting up finally, swinging her legs back over the couch so she could stare at me. Her hair was pulled up behind her head; this was a good indication of my goals for the night being accomplished. Getting her out of the house was to be the most fortunate move of the night. "You as restless as I am for once, Arthur?" She inquires. I pretend I don't want to answer. She sighs. "You're on your own, then, I'm afraid. I was thinking of going for a run."

Perfect. We're right on track.

"At this hour?" I ask "Alone?"

"Don't I always go alone?" She furrows her eyebrows together a bit, standing up to turn off the television. And after this afternoon, I'm sure she'd be able to handle herself more than most men.

"I suppose…But it's not very safe, you know."

"And you think you could protect me?" She asks, with a half laugh. I don't see what's so funny about it, myself. She may have strong knees, but if she were in any real danger, I doubt she could pull off as well.

"William's put your shoes in the closet," She says suddenly with a sigh, going to the kitchen, where I'm sure she'll be grabbing a water bottle. I notice that her iPod is already in her pocket; she's been planning on going for this run for a while now. But as to why she brought up my shoes. She's a clever girl. She knows what I'm asking. "If you're going to need a refresher, I suggest you get it now. There won't be any shops open at one in the morning."

Brilliant. Scarlet is a bit smarter than she leads on.

"Alright." I nod, and hide the fact that I feel a smile grow on my face. I go to find my shoes, she fills her water bottle, and before I know it we're both out of the house jogging. Scarlet's got a typical pattern in her runs, she goes the same few blocks, through the park, over the bridge, then back again the opposite way. But tonight I've got another route in mind, and I doubt she'll protest. If she's invited me along, then she can't mind wanting to follow me. No, tonight we're going to a place I haven't seen in months.

Tonight the run will lead us right through past Baker Street.

Right past the place I used to call home.

Past the place where I know he will be staying tonight. And if I'm lucky, I may catch a glimpse of my old comrade.

My old friend.

My John.

We've been out for an hour now. Scarlet didn't protest to following me; She turned right, I kept going straight. She asked what I was doing, I told her I was jogging, and she followed without hesitation. Scarlet is a good follower; a bit like John, really. She wasn't senile, no. You could tell when you looked at her that she was working everything through, not like a dog, but an obedient cat. She had a mind of her own, but she rarely followed it. Her loyalty was too strong for that. John had loyalty, too, but entirely of a different kind. And he was far brighter.

We turn onto Baker Street, and all at once everything feels different. It's all the same, of course. But it's all so…different.

Not a thing has changed, and yet it's all so foreign.

Scarlet passes me, then slows down. I must have slowed down as well. As a matter of fact, I'm not moving at all.

"Arthur, you alright?" Scarlet asked, her eyebrows furrowed. I don't even hear her until after she's spoken. All I can see is a light.

I know the flat that the light is coming from.

I know the room that the light is coming from.

I know the meaning of that very light, and better yet I know who is using it.

John is awake.

"I'm fine." I reply statically. I start moving again, but Scarlet's suspicious. We move slowly, not even half as fast as we were earlier.

I don't take my eyes off of the light.

"Really? Because you're not acting like it." She places her hand on my chest as a barricade. I stop moving, and finally look to her. She's not upset, or inquisitive, there's not a glint of it in her eyes. Her lips are turned downwards, but not her eyebrows. As a matter of fact, their raised, in concern, and nothing more. There's a glint of distrust in the way her hands half-curl together into separate fists, but not a thing says that she will stop me.

She pities me. She sympathizes with me. And she doesn't even know what it is she's sympathizing with. I don't want sympathy. I don't need it. Its useless. But it _does_ work in my favor.

"Trust me, I know a face like that when I see one." She breathes out calmly, quietly. I turn my gaze back to the window, where the light is coming from, and there's a shadow.

My God.

"It's him."

I blink, flustered, confused – Scarlet's just finished my thoughts with her words, the exact thing I was thinking. I don't know how she did it, but for the first time Scarlet's proven herself to be brilliant. And now she's looking at the window, too.

"That's what's got you in a rift?" She asks, turning back to me. "Him? An old friend of yours, probably. Will and I aren't the only ones that have been using alias'. I know that." She pauses, pursing her lips together. I raise an eyebrow at her, wanting her to carry on, but she just shakes her head. "Would you like me to see how he's doing?"

To see how he's doing?

"No, it's…" My breathing is heavy, I notice, and try to correct it. She can't know. Emotion is too much of a giveaway - a risk. It has to be harnessed. _Hidden_. "It's impossible, it'll be fine. We can't just march up to the door and-"

"You can't just march up to the door." Scarlet sighs, standing up straight, tugging at the ends of her shirt. "Knock me down, will you?"

"Pardon?" I ask, taken aback.

"Well I've got to get in the door somehow, haven't I?" She asks, shrugging. "Scrapes usually do the trick – worked a few months back when I needed something from…well, never mind." She sighed, offering me a smile. "My body is ready." She said, stepping forward a bit. "Go ahead and knock me down or I will start fighting you, which might actually work a bit-"

I grab her by the shoulder sand give her a good shove the ground; the more convincing the words the better. She grunts, seethes, curls into a ball, and then nods.

"Right, good job." She murmurs, sitting up finally.

"You wanted it." I remind her short memory, turning my gaze back to the window. "Go." Besides, it was necessary.

It takes her a second to climb from the ground; her hands are torn, but she recovers quickly. Faster than I expected, but that's not the object of my thought. No, Scarlet doesn't matter. Not yet.

"221b, right?" She asks from across the street, I nod. She knocks.

There's silence, I stare. Scarlet stands at the door, staring at her hands.

Then it opens, just barely. I can't see inside. But I know he's there. And I feel relieved.

Scarlet's smiling, things are fine. I step back. I lean against the building. From what I can tell she is playing the part quite well.

John lets her in.

I can only imagine what's going on inside. I know Scarlet will tell me. She'll have to. But I take peace, for now, just knowing that he's safe.

Tonight, as I draw in a cold breath of air, he is safe.

We are both safe.

I see two shadows in the window.

And for the first time I feel excruciatingly lonely.

And then there's a third shadow.

_They are not alone_.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

I'm only torturing myself by counting as they pass, but I cannot help but count. It's information. If I allow it to slip past me then I have failed not only as an intelligent mind but as someone who observes. I wonder if they're talking. I wonder if they're talking about me.

I don't know who the third person in the room is, and perhaps that's the most troubling bit. I can tell enough to know it's female - that much is obvious. She's too tall to be Molly - taller still to be Donovan. Far too disproportioned to be Irene, an illogical conclusion, for I can't see why she'd come back without me here. I have no recognition of her ever being one of John's girlfriends, but, perhaps…maybe, just maybe…he's found someone else.

The third figure leaves the room - this catches my attention. John's head is tilted forward, he's staring at the ground.

I stand up taller, as though I could try to look in. A foolish attempt, but one caused by curiosity less than desperation.

Scarlet reaches forward, touching him.

This continues for several more seconds, then they rise.

Scarlet is coming back out.

I stand up straight, anxious, peeling myself from the wall. The door shuts behind her. Scarlet stands still for a moment, then raises a hand to her face, covering it. I see her chest heave and contract – oh, she's crying.

My body tenses, I feel my muscles tighten and my chest contract, my breath stuck somewhere between my throat and my mouth. I step towards the street, and Scarlet, like a doe alerted to a predator, raises her eyes, and shakes her head, waving me off. I freeze, confused, then she starts down the walk, and waves her hand. She wants me to follow.

She just doesn't want him to see.

I take one last look at the window; the lights are out now, no doubt John's gone off to bed. He rarely stays up this late anyhow, it's a miracle that he was awake to begin with.

A miracle.

I follow after Scarlet cautiously, passing a man on the street. With each step, she's composing herself. She wipes her eyes first, then tugs at her shirt, straightens her shoulders, raises her head a bit higher, tucks a strayed hair behind her ear. Her hands are bandaged now – I've just noticed. Good John, brave John. Always doing as he's told.

Scarlet turns, stopping behind a building, standing beside it, staring straight at a streetlamp as though she might go to war with it. She's already compressed every emotion she's been feeling, much like a genius.

"Well?" I ask. She doesn't even look up.

"You need to tell him." She says suddenly, her eyes unmoving.

Tell him? What is there to tell? There's not a word I could say to justify or explain what I've needed to do for him. For Lestrade, for Mrs. Hudson.

"I can't." Is all I can say. She laughs, shaking her head.

"That man is severely depressed because he believes you threw yourself off of a building, Sherlock." I hear a crack in her voice – a flaw, a fluctuation. Not only that, but she's called me by my name. It doesn't even seem to faze her, she doesn't notice that she's revealed herself, _or_ me. She's known it all along, who I am. The illustrious Sherlock Holmes. The dead, brilliant genius. But she knows. She knows and I am alive I don't even question it. She's gone along with my lie. There is no accusation for it; she has known. John has not told her, she would have been surprised if she had. She has merely been going along with my lie, silently, until now. "That man is broken, Holmes. You need to fix him before he does more damage to himself than you can possibly imagine."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, but I do. I know it too well." Her eyes pierce me like a knife. There's a judgment in her words, a harsh reality, a feeling. She glares, then looks away, submissive, running a hand across her forehead. "If you don't know what that means, then ask William." She comments suddenly, heavily, then she starts to step away from me. "I'll see you back at the flat, Sherlock. I've got somewhere I need to be."

I watch her walk away. She grows more and more distant with each step, my hands are tucked casually into my pockets, yet I feel…numb. Like I do when I was on the supplements, the one's that I overdosed on, before John came along. And the only thing I can think to say is;

"At one in the morning?" I call out to her. She says nothing, I say nothing. We part our ways for the night. I walk past the flat, pausing in front of the door that reads 221b. I reach out, and run my fingers against the numbers. I know he's inside, but...how close. How close to me is he right now, at this very minute? Seventeen feet, or a thousand.

_Before he does more damage to himself than you can possibly imagine._

I step away from the door.

No, I can't tell him I'm alive. It's impossible. Dangerous. Destructive. Completely illogical.

But I can't take away his hope.

Tomorrow. I think to myself. Tomorrow.

But then there's still a question eating at my brain.

_Who was the third person_?

Scarlet has yet to return to us this morning. I have only gotten a few hours sleep myself, purely out of necessity for it, but her usual place of sleeping upon the couch has remained empty since last night. William has yet to wake this morning; its 8:47, but I've yet to hear a sound from his room with exception to the typical tossing and turning that one does in their sleep.

Another half hour passes, and then William awakes. I hear him in his room for several minutes; opening and closing drawers and his closet. Then he appears, shirtless, with fresh clothes in hand on his way to the bathroom.

"Good morning, Arthur." He greets me, nodding vaguely in my direction. I return it, my eyes set upon him in a deep gaze of questioning. He notices Scarlet's absence almost immediately, frowns, and looks to me with concern in his furrowed eyebrows. "Has Scarlet already gone off on her run?" He asks. Perfect. Just the right question I wanted him to ask. I take in a deep breath, fold my hands together, and look into his eyes.

"No," I say, smoothly. "As a matter of fact she hasn't returned since we went for a run together last night."

"You went for a run together last night? After I'd gone to bed?" He asked, puzzled, perplexed. I nod. He's silent, thinking it over. I can see the gears turning in his head.

"Impossible." He shakes his head, definitive in his statement. "She hasn't anywhere else to go, unless she were to stay at a hotel, or with...Antonio, but she hasn't any money for a hotel and she definitely wouldn't stay with him."

"Antonio?"

"Mutual friend. We'll be going to visit him this weekend, even if she protests."

"She doesn't get along with him?" I inquire.

"It depends on the day - and the subject." William shrugs, brushing it off. This friend of theirs it's what I wanted to talk about anyways. "Where did you last see her?"

"The front door." I lie, quickly enough. I've had more than enough time to think of my cover story, and I wasn't about to mention Baker Street, or the third person, or _Him_. "As a matter of fact, she's told me to have you tell me something."

"And what might that be?"

I pause. I don't suppose he'll be quick with his answer.

"How the pair of you met." I reply.

William frowns, diverts his gaze to the floor, and heaves in a deep, heavy breath. His fingers tap against the countertop - he's thinking of something to say, but not in the usual manner. For the first time he appears detached.

"I'm afraid that's not my story to tell." He says finally, staring up at me with sad eyes.

"She's requested you do."

"I'd rather hear that from her, first, if you don't mind."

A respectable comment, I suppose. But it's not going to quench my thirst for answers.

"Look, if she's been out this long, I doubt she'll be gone for much longer. She hasn't gone over 20 hours without a shower since she was 14 - I highly doubt whatever happened last night could change that. Besides, we have an appointment tonight and if she misses it, the pair of us are going to be in more trouble than either of us can bear."

I nod, carelessly.

"Look, when she comes home, I'll tell you. But until then, that's between the pair of us, and the pair of us only."

"Is it criminal?" I ask; surely he can answer that.

"No." He replies, a bit too quickly.

"You're positive?"

"Absolutely." He answers, bowing his head.

Things remain quiet for the next two hours.

The Third hour comes to pass quicker than I feel that it should, but William sat quietly in the chair near me reading a book of collected works by Shakespeare, much as I imagine Scarlet might have been doing if she were in his place, holding a book of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories, and giggling merrily to herself. It's at this precise moment, while he's turning the page, that we hear the door open, followed by a familiar heavy sigh.

Scarlet appears at the top of the stairs less than a minute later, looking tired, worn, and exactly the same as last night - even one of her hands remains bandaged; her left.

She gives me a look that asks if Williams told, I shake my head, then she turns back to him, frowning once she sees his own gaze inquiring about where she's spent the past night.

"You can tell him. You have my permission." She says, frowning as she shrugs. He glances at me, then shakes his head.

"Not tonight. I don't want to tonight." William murmurs, simple enough. A disappointment.

"But you will tell him?" She asks, looking hurt, for the briefest of seconds.

"If you want me to, then yes." William returns, quietly, stoically.

"Right...I've been to see Ben and Meg."

Curious. William said she didn't have any friends. Then again, he looks just as surprised as I am.

"You aren't-" He starts, sternly, abruptly, then stops. "…Are they well?"

"As one can expect." She shrugs.

"I thought perhaps you'd gone to Antonio's."

Scarlet freezes, a look of confusion taking over her face as she looks to William.

"No." She responds slowly, shaking her head. A break in her expression. "Has he called?"

"No, this weekend." William answers, frowning. "We're going out tonight."

Scarlet pauses, horror stricken. Not the typical reaction a woman may have to hearing the words 'we're going out', but Scarlett and William's wasn't that of a typical man and woman.

"Tonight?" she asks. "My God, is it really the 21st already?" William nods. "I thought I had more time than this..."

"If you'd like I could call for a delay."

"No, no, it's probably best just to go through with it. How soon do we have to leave?"

"Well it's nearly noon, so we've got six hours."

"Only six?" Scarlet asks, pursing her lips together gently. "You'll need a suit."

"And you a dress." He nods, rising to his feet.

William and Scarlet continued in the least of interesting conversations until Scarlet decided to bathe, but my interests were still set elsewhere. There were two unanswered questions still rolling through my head, the first was, as expected, just how William and Scarlet had come to know each other, and the second was, just as it had been the night before, irrevocably tied to just who may be staying with John. I know I won't be getting an answer to either question any time soon, not unless I discover it for myself. But it has been a while since I was out on the town by myself in the daytime.

I bury my nose in a paper while Scarlet bathes and William prepares something in his room. An hour passes, then they both leave together.

I wait until they clear the street corner.

Then I make my move.

* * *

**SHERLOCK DEAR WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO YOURSELF!?**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and if you would please leave a comment. I'd love some input from you guys and the more you put down the more likely I am to update because I'm not sure if anyone is really enjoying this...SO PLEASE COMMENT AND COME BACK BECAUSE I LOVE YOU ALL OKAY? THANK YOU FOR READING! Will try to update by Tuesday night!**


End file.
